1 Degree South of Cold
by RainIsMyFavouriteColour
Summary: Originally posted separately. Mini series written from 2nd person perspective, consisting of 2 parts. 1. Blue To Me: Sawamura's musings on the enigma called Miyuki Kazuya; 2. Icarus: Companion piece to 'Blue To Me'. Miyuki's take on Sawamura.


**Part 1 - Blue To Me**

"You're blue to me." you say.

There's a pause, a blink, a questioning look punctuated by a raised eyebrow and the beginnings of an unsure smile.

"What?"

You look away, embarrassed at losing yourself in gazing again, at having blurted out your thoughts.

Thoughts of sharp eyebrows, sharp eyes, a sharp smirk housing an even sharper tongue.

Of eyes which are brown but feel blue, cool and calculating, analytical and assessing as they sweep across the diamond.

Of cold fire burning a path between you and him, an answering call to simmering desire. A hot-cold spark shown in equal expressions of confidence, teeth glinting like freshly fallen snow.

Of freezing fury lacing usually warm brown and sending a chill down your spine and right into your core. It left a shard of ice which still stings and reminds you to never wake his anger again.

Of a repertoire of smiles, smirks and words, sharp like knives, able to cut down and through any armour only to protect his own.

His own armour, sharp and shiny, untouchable and hiding another whole world of blue.

There's that broken look in his eye you think you can see when no one else is looking. You turn away before you can get caught.

But you can't resist glancing at him again and before you know it, you spend more time watching him than not.

You become a master at sneaking looks at him, a peek over your shoulder in the hallway, a sideway glance at practice and another from behind your glove. You learn the shape and form of his back and profile well, and soon you can tell after a glance so quick no one even knows you did what is truth and what is a lie.

There are more lies than you would have thought and it breaks your heart.

On the days you can tell his mask is brittle, you do your best to be exceedingly loud and distracting. You receive wide smirks and insults as reward, but you don't care because they sound real. It's the most honest you ever see him off the field.

Because you can see behind his smiles and cutting words now. You can tell that they're stitched together from many fragments, using a needle of raw pain and thread composed of sadness.

The pain is dark red but the blue is what you see, so dark it almost fades to black and goes on endlessly.

It mirrors his eyes during rare moments when his double shields break down. It hasn't happened often but when it does, they reveal a world of hurt and loneliness, another shade of blue so grey it almost looks like a storm.

It hurts you to see him like that, to see that particular shade of blue mixed with that awful bluish-black and blood-red.

It's one of those times again and this time, instead of watching on helplessly, you take it upon yourself to turn it into the cloudless sky.

You mutter something unintelligible, only to end it in a thinly veiled insult to begin the usual banter. You hear him laugh obnoxiously, jarringly.

"Why, thank you!"

You jump up and flail, making a spectacle of yourself which results in your roommate catching you in a painful headlock. You gasp for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks but you catch sight of him, the one who usually catches for you.

You catch for him for the first time and almost miss, but it's the most beautiful, brightest blue you've ever seen, a smile so wide and genuine it almost hurts to look, more than the headlock does.

And you lie in bed that night, recalling that precious memory you caught and already treasure.

You wouldn't mind being his catcher if what he throws is always that blue.

 **Part 2 - Icarus**

You've been too cold, too often, even more than usual and you don't know why. You wrap yourself in layers of clothing, always seeking out the warmest spot in the room or the sunniest patch of grass you can find.

You sneeze, wiping your nose of the cold bit of moisture you find there. You let your fingers graze the metal fence as you wander past it but it feels warm. Your skin is too cold to recognise its true temperature.

Maybe it's because you haven't been eating much lately…you dismiss the thought as easily as it came and resign yourself to another day of trying not to freeze to death. It's been a long time since you've felt anything close to warmth, after all.

This is why it comes as a big shock, an unexpected surprise, to suddenly feel blazing heat just a small distance ahead.

It comes in the form of that excitable middle-schooler from a few months ago.

Loud and brazen, rude, are the words you use to describe him as you poke at him with your sharp tongue and smirks, getting off on the wrong foot with him right then and there.

You didn't think you would come to regret as soon as you did, but you are.

You slowly start to add to the tags and labels you attach to him the longer to observe him. You do so carefully, but you do it nevertheless. You can't help it.

You feel warm.

He is the sun, the light that attracts the moth with never-ending curiosity and failure to realise it will always burn just as it reaches its prize. It never learns from its mistakes and neither do you.

You can't help but watch, can't help but bask in the heat he directs at you from burning amber.

You want, _need_ , him to look at you to feel that rush of pleasurable heat, chasing away the permanent chill inside you. But you can't get him to, no matter what, so you finish what you started.

You can't help it.

You can't help but bait him with thinly veiled insults and superior glances, can't help but goad him to coax out that delicious warmth you crave and need.

It's worth being burned a few times, worth the few freezing days when you've done something particularly hurtful which results in his avoidance of you.

You swear to yourself, and give him the silent promise, to never go that far again.

You break it, too many times to count, and it hurts and burns and nearly freezes you to death each and every time. You fly too high and fall too fast, too deep until you crash into a cold, merciless ocean of blue.

And still you keep coming back for more.

All it takes is one well-placed word or gesture, tinder to catch aflame and get the fire roaring once more, glowing and illuminating all that is cold and dark.

You've stopped seeking out all warm places except one. It's a reliable and constant source of heat and light.

It feels too good to be true, burning too fast to last.

You resolve to cure yourself of your addiction of the sun. You can't keep going back, can't keep burning and hurting him – that was never your intention. You admit you may have added water instead of oil to the fire.

All you wanted was to feel warm, all you wanted was to keep that fire burning, keep the heat constant.

But moths aren't meant to fly too close to the sun and your wings have been melting slowly, falling apart until they are nothing more but a heavy mass to drag you down, down, down into bottomless, black water.

Except even then, when you don't have that spark of energy needed to spare, the sun comes and reaches for you with its long fingers, warm and solid. It fills you with buzzing heat, running through your veins like liquid light underneath your skin until you're full to the brim.

You smile, tentatively, as you reach out with nervous anticipation, heart beating as steadily as your wings as you swing higher and higher into the brilliant blue sky.

You don't focus on the growing sun in front of you. You simply fly, fly and let the rays touch what they will.

You've never been this warm.


End file.
